The Policeman's Ball
by samvimes
Summary: Carrot's latest attempt at community outreach goes awry when he's attacked, and now Vimes has to answer the question -- who wants Captain Carrot dead?
1. Default Chapter

To be honest, I must ask myself, where the /hell/ did this come from?  
  
And the answer is, I don't know. It was supposed to be a funny little  
story about what happens when Captain Carrot gets an idea in his head  
to do a little community outreach. It turned into a realio-trulio   
mystery without my noticing.   
  
Gentle readers, I hope you will find it as entertaining to read as I  
did to write. Beware the spoilers for The Night Watch, however.  
  
And no sniggering. I mean that! :)  
  
More to come in the following days. Still polishing the rest of it.  
  
  
  
The Policeman's Ball  
  
  
'If there was a policemen's ball, we would be among the first to buy a   
ticket,' said Mr Pin.  
'Specially if it was mounted on a plinth, or a little display stand of   
some sort,' said Mr Tulip, 'Cos we like beautiful things.'  
-- The Truth  
  
  
It was the nature of the job of a senior Watch officer to be polite,   
friendly, and plain-spoken. They are much the same type of person, for   
much the same reasons, as a kindergarten teacher.   
  
Now, /the/ senior Watch officer, the Commander, he could be tough and   
rude and imposing as a school's headmaster, because he dealt with the   
upper levels of society and a kind person amongst lords will soon find   
himself without a job or, in the keener parts of the city, without a   
head.  
  
Ordinary Watch officers, who walked a beat, were allowed a similar   
leeway, because they dealt with people who would cut your throat for   
the cash in your pocket. Ordinary officers had to sort out venomous   
fights between drunken pub-goers and needed the extra edge.  
  
For the other ninety-nine percent of people who did not compose the   
criminal or noble classes, whose only dealings with the Watch were   
traffic tickets and perhaps bailing out their teenaged children when   
they'd been arrested for scrawling graffiti on the city walls, there   
was the Captain*.   
  
Ordinary people didn't complain to the Commander, because nobs did, and   
'we ain't puttin' ourselves as high as all that'. Ordinary people   
viewed the Commander as a politician, because he so obviously was,   
albeit a politician with a fine right hook and at least a little good   
sense. Ordinary people complained to the Captain, in the belief that he   
was far more able to get things done.  
  
This was quite possibly true, granting that it was Captain Carrot, who   
knew everyone and was liked by everyone he knew. Carrot was a simple   
soul, though his superiors suspected him of keen intelligence and   
occasionally even sarcasm as well. He liked walking around the city,   
and did it even on his days off. He was likely to smile and assume that   
it was all a big misunderstanding, where another officer** would throw   
a punch.   
  
Carrot fought daily the battle of belief that everyone was good-natured   
at heart, delinquent children were just rascally souls in need of a   
football, and Mr. Dibbler was an innocent tradesman trying to make his   
way in the world. It led to a lot of ideas which, coming from anyone   
else, would have been considered absurd.   
  
Carrot planned community-service jobs for prisoners, and youth-outreach   
programs for youths who would bite your outreached hand before they'd   
tell you their name. He organized pancake breakfasts for the elderly   
and was also very involved in the dwarf community.  
  
And people actually listened to him.   
  
And /nobody laughed/.   
  
And it all worked out, somehow.  
  
Which was why Commander Vimes, who had encountered Carrot's unique   
genius too often to be surprised, merely sighed when he saw the printed   
flyers, and pulled one down to take back to the Watch House with him.  
  
-------  
STREET FAIRE  
Come Onne Come, Alle!  
Join the Watch for,   
an aftyrnoon of funn & Games.  
Merchants, foode, and mufic.   
Sator fquarre 3 o'clock  
4rth Grune  
Bring your freinds & family!  
  
In the Evening the first ever   
Policeman's Ball.   
Tickets sold, at the Opera House.  
For a good caufe!  
------  
  
It was one of the small delights of William de Worde to leave any jobs   
not meant for publication in his news sheet with the exact spelling and   
punctuation that he'd received in the proof. The commas were   
suspiciously Carrot-esque, but 'freinds' confirmed it. Vimes sighed.  
  
The worst thing was, he'd probably already approved it without   
thinking. Carrot had a distressing tendency to slip things past him   
when he knew his mind was elsewhere, and his mind was almost always   
elsewhere, since the Commander of the Watch had no limit of available   
distractions.  
  
Corporal Nobbs was on desk duty when he entered the Watch House, and   
the little man tossed him about half a salute before he saw the paper   
clenched in Vimes' left hand.  
  
"Good afternoon, Nobby," Vimes said, leaning on the desk. Nobby leaned   
away from him warily. "Quiet day?"  
  
"Yes, Mister Vimes."  
  
"Good! Where's Fred?"  
  
"In the canteen I think, sir."  
  
"Aha. On break?"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
"And do you happen to know where Captain Carrot is, Nobby?"  
  
Nobby weighed the options. If he lied to Mr. Vimes, he was almost   
certainly going to get yelled at, whereas if he narked on Carrot, he'd   
probably just get a suspiciously hearty slap on the back. Self-  
preservation warred with loyalty to his Captain.  
  
"Arch'ry butts, sir," he said miserably. Loyalty, well-used to losing   
when it came to Corporal Nobbs, slunk back into its hole.  
  
"I see. Did he say when he'd be back?"  
  
"Pretty soon, I think, sir."  
  
"Excellent. And now for the three-hundred dollar question, Nobby. Did   
you know about this?"  
  
The slightly grubby sheet of print was thrust under Nobby's nose.  
  
"I seen 'em this morning, sir," Nobby said helpfully. "All over the   
city."  
  
"Before they were printed, Nobby."  
  
"Er...sort of, sir."  
  
"How exactly did you 'sort of' know about this, Corporal?"  
  
"Well, Carrot said..."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"E said 'wouldn't it be nice if we had a ball for charity', sir, and   
after I stopped sniggering, sir, I said we ort to make a day of it..."  
  
Vimes read Nobby's eyes all too clearly. A day of refereeing the   
shooting range at a fair would be a day where you didn't have to patrol   
in the hot summer sun, and might even see someone get shot, which was   
always good for a few minutes' entertainment.  
  
"Right. Send Carrot up when he gets in, would you?" Vimes said, and   
thumped up the stairs to his office.   
  
It wasn't that Vimes was against community outreach, theoretically, but   
this was Ankh-Morpork. It was not a town where happy street fairs   
thrived. He liked the city, in the way coppers have, but when it came   
to actual people Vimes was a misomnithrope; he didn't like /anyone/,   
regardless of species or gender.   
  
The Patrician would have Words about this. Are these men going to be   
paid out of the city budget for attending the 'funn and games'? he'd   
ask. What, exactly, is the good cause for which these funds are being   
raised? A Policeman's Ball? My, my. How very entertaining of young   
Carrot.   
  
Vimes busied himself with the mountainous paperwork on his desk,   
while he waited for Carrot to arrive. Visions of mob scenes around the   
ring-toss game (operated, with suspiciously small rings, by Mr.   
Dibbler) and Detritus in another terrible tuxedo, holding a cup of   
punch as if it were a thimble, floated in front of his eyes.   
  
He himself would probably have to shake hands with people he didn't   
like and try to make small talk with the Patrician, which was patently   
impossible.  
  
He heard Carrot coming up the stairs, and the polite knock on his door.   
Carrot was the picture of innocence when he was told to enter.  
  
"Captain," he said slowly, as Carrot stood to attention, "there's been   
some very interesting flyers circulating in the city." He held up the   
printed announcement, and saw just a flicker of anxiety in Carrot's big   
honest face. "Funn and Games?" he asked.  
  
"Well, sir, I though, it's summer and all, get people out in the fresh   
air..." Carrot began. "You know, a few merchant stalls, they're always   
in the Square anyhow. I thought we could have a half-field football   
match, Officers versus All Comers, Ping volunteered to be captain. And   
Corporal Visit says he knows how to rig a dunk-tank, he says they used   
to use them in Omnia all the time and he's sure if we just removed the   
water-boiling mechanism -- "  
  
"Did I approve this, Carrot?"  
  
"Erm. Yes, sir. Well, sort of, sir."  
  
You could always count on Carrot to be scrupulously honest.   
  
"You know, it's funny, Nobby used that phrase too. Sort of. Could you   
define 'sort of' for me, Carrot?"  
  
Carrot licked his lips. "Well, sir, I said we ought to do more in the   
community to present a positive image of the Watch, and you said 'I'd   
like to see you try and present what we haven't got', and then Billy   
the Snickler robbed the post office and you took off, sir, before I   
could finish."  
  
Vimes nodded. "So you organized a street fair."  
  
"Yes, sir. I thought perhaps...well, I don't know why, really, but we   
could sort of, we could cut some big metal oil drums in half and cook   
food in them, on a grate over a fire, you know. I thought sausages and   
ribs and such. Sham Harga's dead set on the idea, says he can charge   
double since people won't want to look around for cheaper. And of   
course Mr. Dibbler supports it. He says in this heat he could bottle   
water and sell it. And there'll be a ball afterwards for anyone who   
wants to come."  
  
Vimes sighed. "I would have called it a dance, Carrot. At least on   
the flyers."  
  
"Corporal Nobbs said -- "  
  
"Carrot, what have I told you about listening to Nobby?"  
  
Carrot thought about this. "Erm. Don't, sir."  
  
"Exactly." He smoothed the flyer, thoughtfully. "It's all organized, is   
it? Visit building the dunk tank as we speak?"  
  
"Re-drawing the plans, sir."  
  
"And Sham Harga and Dibbler are on board? And you've already talked to   
the people at the Opera House."  
  
"They'll let us use it free of charge, if we promise not to let   
Detritus attend the opera again. I thought we could raise money for the   
Sunshine Sanctuary."  
  
Which meant that Lady Sybil Vimes already knew about it. Which meant   
that Commander Sir Samuel Vimes was well and truly up the Ankh without   
a paddle.  
  
"I've lined up officers to volunteer at the fair, and Reg's willing to   
supervise the b -- the dance, sir. Lots of people have already bought   
tickets. Mr. de Worde ran a bit about it in his society column, says   
the Times'll be there taking pictures and all."  
  
Uniquely for a human being, Vimes knew when he was beat.   
  
"And what will my job be, Carrot?" he asked tiredly.  
  
"Well, sir, I haven't found anyone for the dunk -- er." Carrot saw the   
look in his Commander's eye, and nodded. "Right, sir. In that case, I   
suppose you could come and...be visible."  
  
"Visible?"  
  
"Yes, sir. People like to see their leaders out and about."  
  
"I'm not a leader, and they see me every day."  
  
"But usually not for long, sir, on account of the running. With all due   
respect, people ought to know you're more than a metallic blur."  
  
"Visible. Eat one of Harga's sausages, try my hand at the ring-toss,   
that sort of thing."  
  
"There's the spirit, sir!"  
  
"Yes. I was afraid you'd say that."  
  
***  
  
In a way, a very specific way which few other people would understand,   
the street fair was the best entertainment Vimes could remember having   
in a long time.   
  
It was a hot day, and Sator Square provided very little shade, but   
people had turned out in droves to attend Captain Carrot's Fair. He'd   
probably gone door-to-door announcing it.   
  
Throat Dibbler, Merchant Venturer, had made good on his idea of   
selling water. It was Ankh river-water, so there was a good inch of   
sediment on the bottom of each bottle, but he was doing a brisk   
business all the same. Water in bottles!   
  
Dibbler was competing, however, with the Brewers, Vinters, and   
Associated Trades Guild stall, which was selling beer straight from the   
tap at outrageous prices and giving away free peanuts. Before the day   
was out, someone was going to break a water bottle over someone else's   
head, he suspected.   
  
Gargoyles, as interested in street theatre as any other Ankh-Morpork   
citizen, had temporarily colonized the upper floors of the buildings   
surrounding the square. Constable Downspout, at Carrot's request, had   
passed out long ribbons, and it was a rare creature that didn't have at   
least one colourful decoration wrapped around its ears or dangling from   
its perpetually-open mouth.   
  
They were eating well, too. Pigeons and seagulls came in droves to eat   
up the scraps that fell from the fairgoers' hands, and there is nothing   
a gargoyle likes more than fresh pigeon.   
  
He passed the Pin-The-Badge-On-Detritus game, where they were almost   
out of pins, and stopped to greet Carrot, who was wearing an enormous   
apron over his Watch uniform and tending one of Sham Harga's grills.   
It's good for people to see that we're just like them, Carrot had said.   
Vimes privately thought that Carrot was like nobody else on the Disc,   
and a bloody good thing, too, but he kept it to himself.   
  
It was better than a circus. See Dorfl, the ceramic Golem, teaching   
children fire-safety by setting a fellow golem on fire. See Ponder   
Stibbons of Unseen University, selling giant magical bags of cloud-like   
stuff called 'Spun Sugar' to raise money for new additions to Hex.  
  
See Chrysoprase the troll, head of the Breccia crime family, manning a   
booth for the Guild of 'Legitimate Businessmen'. Next to it, Nobby   
Nobbs, showing a precocious seven-year-old how to shoot the head off a   
stuffed mannequin with a crossbow.  
  
Even the Assassins had opened a recruiting stall for the Guild school,   
inviting kiddies to try and guess how many weapons each of the stall's   
occupants was wearing under their clothing. Get it right, win a prize!   
Vimes didn't look too closely at what the prizes were. He suspected he   
didn't want to know.   
  
There was Ping, saluting as he captaining the Officers' team of the   
ongoing football match, while Archchancellor Ridcully refereed   
energetically. Occasionally the Archchancellor shouted indiscriminate   
encouragement, or turned people who disagreed with him into rabbits,   
which Vimes supposed was the magical equivalent of a red-card.   
  
The Officers were losing on goals but had twice as many fouls as the   
other team, and half as many rabbits. That's my lads, Vimes thought   
to himself.   
  
And everywhere he went, people greeted him, or pointed him out to   
others, or gave him the sort of half-hearted nod that people give   
policemen while they're trying to recall anything illegal they've done   
recently.   
  
Visibility. Sure.  
  
He stopped in front of the dunk-tank, which seemed to consist of a   
giant bathtub full of water with a seat above it, attached by a long  
wooden arm to a sheet with a target painted in the center. The goal was   
to hit the target and knock a young Lance-Constable, already soaking   
and beginning to sunburn, into the bathtub. The line for a go at the   
Watchman was quite long.  
  
The boy -- Vimes thought his name was Dodgson -- had pinned his Watch   
badge to his swimsuit. Vimes grinned.   
  
"Have a try, Commander? For you, three throws, free of charge,"   
Constable Fiddyment, manning the paying end of the dunk-tank, offered   
generously. The rest of the line looked on with interest. "Knock him in   
and win a free raffle ticket."  
  
A raffle. Carrot had outdone himself.   
  
"Sure you want to offer that? When I was a corporal I could knock a   
geranium pot off a third story window. In the dark," Vimes said.   
  
"Then this should be a piece of cake," Fiddyment replied. "Just one   
little hit, right there in the bulls-eye. One little hit, ladies and   
gentlemen, and the Watchman gets dunked! We promise not to arrest you,"   
he added. The people in the line laughed nervously.  
  
"All right," Vimes agreed. He saw Sybil standing nearby, holding young   
Sam, and a spark of inner machismo dared him to do it. He took one of   
the wooden spheres that was offered, hefted it, and let go with a   
beautiful over-arm throw that missed the bull's-eye by inches.  
  
The constable silently passed him another one. This was an inch off, on   
the other side. He saw Dodgson's seat give a little shiver.  
  
"Warm-ups, eh Commander?" Fiddyment asked.  
  
"Wouldn't want to dunk him three times in one go," Vimes said. He   
tossed the third one in his hand, twice, and nailed the target in the   
direct center. There was a frozen moment, a gurgling 'noo!' and Dodgson   
vanished from view.   
  
"Well done, Commander!" Dodgson called, leaping up out of the chilly   
water. It poured off his hair and down his face, splashing onto the   
ground. "G'day, yer ladyship!"  
  
"Good day, Mr. Dodgson," Sybil called back. "That wasn't very nice,   
Sam," she added, with a little touch of pride.  
  
"A good throw, Mr. Vimes," Fiddyment was saying. "Line'll be twice as   
long now."  
  
"Did Dodgson volunteer for that?" Vimes asked, aghast. That water   
looked painful.   
  
"Yessir. Said it'd be better than working the shooting arcade with   
Corporal Nobbs, sir."  
  
"You give him my raffle ticket, he could use it," Vimes muttered, and   
returned Dodgson's salute before joining Sybil near a shoe-merchant's   
stall.   
  
"You see, I told you this would be fun," she said. "I've been over at   
the Opera House. It should be really terribly entertaining tonight.   
You know Otto Chriek?"  
  
"The nutter vampire?"  
  
"The /iconographer/," she corrected. "He says the grand ballroom has   
exceptional lighting for his art. He thinks candle-light makes   
everything look mysterious."  
  
"Anything stronger makes him dissolve," Vimes said dismissively. "How's   
the adoption going?"  
  
Sybil had gotten together with a few of her society friends, and they   
were taking turns manning a booth full of rescued swamp dragons, trying   
to adopt them out. He'd heard at least one bang from their general   
direction.  
  
"We've only had two explosions so far," Sybil said. "No adoptions yet,   
but we're quite hopeful. It's so hard to find good homes for them."  
  
"It's hard to find homes that'll stand up against them," Vimes added.   
  
"Yes, that's true. The benefit tonight should be a great help to the   
Sanctuary, though. Here's your contribution, by the way," she added,   
pinning a hand-made badge to a strap on his armour. It said 'Light My   
Fire! Adopt A Dragon Today'. Vimes, well-used to the Sunshine   
Sanctuary's propaganda, didn't give it a second thought. Young Sam   
already had one holding his nappy on.  
  
"It's been quite an afternoon, but I think we ought to go soon," Sybil   
continued, taking his arm. "I've got to dress for tonight, and Wilikins   
has been polishing your new dress armour -- " She saw his expression,   
and shook her head. "This is the Policeman's Ball and you are the   
Commander of the Watch."  
  
"Yes, that's why -- " He stopped, suddenly, and looked up. All of the   
gargoyles' heads were turning to the left, towards Sham Harga's food   
court.  
  
"What're they watching?" he asked.   
  
"The gargoyles?" Sybil followed his gaze. "Probably just a flock of   
pigeons, Sam -- "  
  
But he was already running, pushing his way through the crowd towards   
the barbecue drums. He could see Dorfl, towering over everyone,   
arriving from the other direction.  
  
Flames were roaring up around the cooks, engulfing and melting the   
barbecues with the intensity of their heat. He saw Dorfl and two other   
golems stamp their way through, but you couldn't carry a /person/   
through those flames, it'd kill them --  
  
He saw his gap and dove for it, sliding on his back under one of the   
drums that hadn't yet collapsed. Through the smoke, Carrot was carrying   
Sham Harga on his shoulder.  
  
"THIS WAY!" Vimes yelled, and Carrot nodded calmly. They shoved the   
unconscious cook through the gap, wincing as the heat blasted them, and   
then Carrot waved him forward. Dorfl, nearby, had already beaten one of   
the fires to death with his big ceramic fists.   
  
This is why we like diversity in the Watch, Vimes thought. Next man   
says I shouldn't employ golems, I'm going to set him on fire.  
  
Hands reached out to pull him through, and he saw someone splashing   
water over Harga's head. He staggered to his feet, smelled burning   
leather, and noticed that his britches had seared all the way up his   
left leg. He flexed it gingerly. Nothing out of order with the leg,   
apparently...  
  
Sybil appeared out of the mass of people, with a wailing Sam in her   
arms and Lord Vetinari on her heels. Vimes tried to smile reassuringly.   
Carrot, dusting ash off his uniform and beating out a small grass fire   
with the remains of the apron, joined him.  
  
"Keep smiling, sir," Carrot said quietly. "That wasn't an accidental   
fire."  
  
"Somehow I didn't think so," Vimes answered, out of the corner of his   
mouth. He felt pieces of his britches beginning to crumble away.   
  
"Are you all right, Sam?" Sybil asked, taking her own inventory of his   
injuries. She produced a volumnous handkerchief and wiped soot away   
from his eyes. "That was jolly brave of you."  
  
"I'm fine, I think. Carrot?"  
  
"Tip-top, sir. Wouldn't mind a cool drink."  
  
"Me either," Vimes agreed. "Where's Dibbler?"  
  
"I took the liberty," the Patrician said, producing two bottles of   
cloudy water. "Mr. Dibbler is, as always, man on the spot when one   
needs to make a hurried purchase," he continued. Carrot uncorked the   
bottles and passed one to Vimes, who dumped it over his head.   
  
"Very dignified, your Grace," the Patrician murmured.  
  
"I just pulled a man from a grill fire, I'm not up to dignity right   
now," Vimes retorted. "Anyone else in there, Dorfl?"  
  
Dorfl, clicking and pinging as he cooled, appeared through the smoke.   
"No, Sir," he rumbled. "We Have Contained The Fire. Just Another   
Example Of The Dangers Of An Open Flame," he said, to several small   
children who were staring up in awe.   
  
"Nothing more to see, ladies and gentlemen," Vimes announced, shaking   
water onto Dorfl, where it danced and steamed. "Move along. Go on."  
  
"Music at the stage in half an hour!" Carrot shouted after the crowd,   
which was already dispersing.   
  
"I think it's time we went home," Vimes said to Sybil. "Carrot, think   
you could spare the time to come along?"  
  
  
***  
  
  
* It hadn't always been that way. Commander Vimes had, by all reports,   
been just as rude and tough when he was Captain, although, the unkind   
said, probably less coherent than he was now.   
  
** Sam Vimes, for e.g. 


	2. 2

The Policeman's Ball  
Pt. 2  
  
Carrot sat at the writing table in the grand bedroom of the house   
on Scoone Avenue, looking politely out at the grounds while Vimes   
changed out of his disentegrating britches.   
  
"The fire you were cooking on," Vimes said, peering into the closet   
where his dress uniform hung. "It was charcoal. It shouldn't have   
flared up like that."  
  
"And not all at once, sir. Someone put something on the coals right   
before it went up. Probably lamp oil. Maybe paint thinner."  
  
"And you didn't see who did it. Of course."  
  
"No sir. I was taking orders from Mr. Spindler."  
  
Vimes took down the dress trousers. They weren't comfortable, but they   
were a lot better than the tights he'd had to wear in the past. He   
pulled them on, cinching his belt over them.  
  
"And Mr. Spindler is not, by and large, a criminal mastermind?"  
  
"No sir. He makes forks, sir."  
  
Vimes turned to him. "Just forks?"  
  
"He's a Guild specialist. People as far away as Muntab buy his forks.  
Well. They would, if they used forks in Muntab..."  
  
Vimes scratched his head, then pulled off his breastplate, which had   
soot-marks on it. Underneath, his chainmail had fused together in   
places. He was somewhat surprised he hadn't cooked himself.  
  
"Who'd want to ruin the fair?" Carrot asked, his forehead wrinkled. He   
sounded as though someone had just kicked his new kitten. "All we were   
doing was having a bit of a cook-out and some games!"  
  
"Maybe someone who hates other people enjoying themselves," Vimes said.   
He looked at the cotton shirt, with scorch marks in it from the chain   
mail, and tossed it onto the bed. Another shirt for dusters; if they   
really were saving all of them, there ought to be a room in the mansion   
full from floor to ceiling with rags by now. "Any rabidly aggressive   
vegetarians around the place? Meat Is Dead, sort of thing?"  
  
"Nobody who'd set fire on us."  
  
"All right, here we are," Sybil sang out, as she brought a tin of   
foul-smelling stuff into the room. "Carrot, I know you've got a burn on   
your arm there, let's see to it."  
  
"It isn't anything, Lady Sybil," Carrot said, embarrassed. Sybil shook   
her head and began to apply a liberal amount of the poultice, which was   
orange, with disturbing purple flecks. Vimes handed her his scorched   
shirt, and she tore an even strip off of it, wrapping it around   
Carrot's massive arm.   
  
"Now you, Sam," she said. He struggled into a new shirt.  
  
"Haven't got any," he replied. "No, Sybil, honestly."  
  
"I want a look at that leg, Sam Vimes."  
  
He sighed, and hitched the leg of his trousers. There was an angry red   
mark, two inches long, just below his knee.  
  
"I thought so. Sit," she commanded. He exchanged a hopeless look with   
Carrot, and put in his cuff links while she slathered the poultice on   
his leg and bandaged it. It gave the muscle a sort of cramping chill.   
  
"Well, you won't look perfect for the ball, but you'll definetely look   
heroic," she said, carrying the remains of her ministrations to   
Wilikins, who had appeared silently in the doorway. "Now, I've got to   
get ready. Sam, when you're finished..."  
  
"Yes dear."  
  
"Thank you, Lady Sybil," Carrot said, as they left the bedroom. He   
caught Vimes' eye again, and Vimes shrugged.   
  
"Anyone been after you, Carrot?" Vimes asked, leading the way down the   
stairs and out, into the sprawling grounds of the estate. "Sham Harga's   
a terrible cook, but I can't think anyone would want to kill him over   
it."  
  
"Why would they want /me/ dead, sir?" Carrot asked. Vimes looked at him   
narrowly.  
  
"Well, the Assassins aren't taking contracts on me anymore. You're next   
in line, Captain. It's not their style, fire, but it wouldn't be   
against," he spat, "The /rules/."  
  
"But...I haven't done anything wrong, sir," Carrot continued.   
  
"Well, neither had I, and look where it got me. Wrong is a matter of   
opinion, Carrot. How much're you worth, right now?"  
  
"Worth, sir?"  
  
"To the Assassins, Carrot."  
  
"Couldn't say, Mister Vimes."  
  
Vimes looked at him in surprise. "You don't know? And you're walking   
around the city unprotected?"  
  
"Oh no, sir. I've got my sword and truncheon."  
  
Naive as it was, Carrot had a point. Nobody wanted to kill Captain   
Carrot. You'd have to be really depraved to hire someone to do it, and   
you'd have to be pretty hard-up to take the contract. Vimes got quite   
irritable when people tried to kill his officers. And Carrot was smart   
enough, underneath his innocent exterior, to notice an assassination   
attempt before it happened.   
  
"Could be a freak coincidence. Some lunatic with nothing better to do   
than start fires. If that's so, I want him caught, and soon. If   
someone puts a match to Ankh-Morpork in the summertime, we'll all be   
looking for our hair by morning."  
  
"I'll make inquiries, sir."  
  
"Maybe you'd better stay away from the Opera House tonight," Vimes said   
thoughtfully, as they reached the gate. Carrot shook his head.  
  
"I want to be there, sir. I promised Lady Sybil. And Angua, too. She's   
got a new dress and everything," he added.   
  
"All right. But I want officers on the door and a weapons check. Get   
Downspout and a couple of others up on the roof. Andre knows the layout   
there, call him in and get him into a caterer's outfit."  
  
"Yes, sir," Carrot said, saluting and turning to go.   
  
"Oh, and Carrot?"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
"Mind you wash up a bit," Vimes said with a smile. "Or you'll get soot   
on Angua's dress."  
  
Carrot gave him a tired grin, and nodded as he left.  
  
***  
  
Carrot began giving orders as soon as he arrived back at Pseudopolis   
Yard. He was still giving them when a flurry of messenger pigeons went   
out to the other Watch Houses and various officers on the street; he   
was discussing the orders with Colon when some of the pigeons returned,   
and he was sending out more pigeons when Andre's message was clacksed   
in, saying he was already at the Opera House. By then, Downspout had   
elbowed out some of the other gargoyles on the front facade of the   
building, and there were three Watchmen on the roof, sharing a quiet   
smoke while they waited for something interesting to happen.   
  
It was typical police work. You did a thousand useless things, and at  
the end, you'd learned maybe two facts you didn't know before. In this  
case, the two facts were these:  
  
1. Nobody knew anything; and  
  
2. Angua was very angry.  
  
She'd been one of the unlucky officers who'd drawn patrol duty during  
the fair, and had been on the other side of the city when the fire   
occurred. She was back at the Yard quite quickly afterward, and the   
shouting was something you could sell tickets to. Angua had learned a   
lot about coppering from Carrot, but she'd also learned a lot from   
Vimes, and one of the things she'd picked up from the Commander was   
just how effective shouting can be. Even if nothing new got   
accomplished, it was a wonderful purge.  
  
Carrot, in his room upstairs, took down what amounted to his one   
fancy-dress outfit; clean, shiny boots, brand new trousers, and the  
specially-made fancy-weave chain-mail shirt that Angua had given him   
for his birthday. His armour never needed shining to be dress armour.   
Angua stood nearby and ranted, but she did rant while she was laying   
out her dress for the evening.   
  
Carrot closed his eyes while she changed into the dress. Angua sighed.  
  
He wasn't listening anyhow. He was still preoccupied with why anyone  
would want to ruin the fair. The fact that he'd almost been set on  
fire was a minor point.  
  
"Don't you look nice," he said, with true appreciation, while she put  
her hair up. She smiled.   
  
"We make a nice couple," said Angua, taking his hand and turning him  
so that they could see themselves in the mirror. "I'll tell you what,  
Carrot. If you stop worrying about the fire, I'll stop yelling about  
it."  
  
"All right," he said, reluctantly. "But I think -- "  
  
"I'll start yelling again."  
  
Carrot fell silent, and turned back to the mirror.  
  
"We do look well together, don't we?" he said quietly.  
  
***  
  
"I look an idiot."  
  
Sybil sighed, and tugged on the shoulders of her husband's shirt so  
that it hung straight. "You look nothing of the sort."  
  
"Only idiots wear gold armour."  
  
"Idiots and my husband."  
  
He glanced at her reflection in the mirror. "Are you taking the piss,  
Sybil?"  
  
"Maybe a little." She smiled and straightened his belt, too. He   
immediately shifted his weight so that it hung crooked again. She gave  
up and handed him his sword.  
  
"You look fine, anyhow," he grumbled, as they walked through the front  
hall to the carriage below. "As usual."  
  
"Thank you, dear," she said, and kissed him on the cheek. He looked   
irritable. "It's for a good cause, Sam. Remember that."  
  
"Cheeky little dragons. Yes, indeed," he replied, banging on the  
roof of the carriage. It rattled away towards the Opera House.  
  
***  
  
Vimes was never quite sure how Carrot arranged for the Policeman's Ball   
to be the social do of the season, but apparently he had even better   
connections than the Duke of Ankh. The list of nobs in attendance would   
have made any host proud.   
  
Carrot, who would be in the thick of the crowd if he wasn't also head   
and shoulders /above/ the crowd, waved as he spotted them, and pushed   
his way through.  
  
"Watchmen on every corner of the building, gargoyles on the outside,  
and Andre says he's put plainclothes men in every hidden place   
everywhere. Angua won't let me talk about it," Carrot added.   
  
"Good for Angua. Go enjoy yourself, Carrot. I have inquiries to make,"   
Vimes said. Sybil had already seen an acquaintance, and was moving   
through the crowd to greet her.  
  
Vimes found the fruit juice easily enough, and didn't have much  
difficulty locating the head of the Assassins' guild, either. There  
was usually a respectful distance between him and anyone he wasn't  
actually speaking to.  
  
"Ah, Commander. How are you this evening? I must say, your Captain's   
done an excellent job," Downey said politely, when Vimes approached.   
"He was in charge of the ball, wasn't he?"  
  
Vimes nodded. "It's about Carrot I'd like to talk to you, Downey," he   
said quietly.   
  
"Shop talk?"  
  
"You could call it that. How much is he worth?"  
  
Downey regarded him coolly. "Surely, if you wanted him killed,   
Commander -- "  
  
"I don't want him killed. I think someone else does. I want to know how   
much he's worth."  
  
"I can assure you, Sir Samuel, we have no outside contracts on Mr.   
Ironfoundersson at the present time. The Guild has set his price at   
five hundred thousand dollars, and there have been petitions to put it   
into abeyance, which are being mediated."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Downey grinned at him. "Because he's Captain Carrot," he said.   
  
"Aha."  
  
"Some members of the Guild council have reason to be grateful to the   
Watch -- both yourself and the Captain. Mr. Agara, I understand, owes   
his son's life to Captain Ironfoundersson's quick thinking. Of course,   
if you or the Captain wish to purchase some insurance /against/ those   
malcontents outside of the Guild, we provide those services as well."  
  
Vimes gave the Assassin a sweeping, disgusted glance. "Things will   
have come to a pretty pass, Downey, when Carrot and I can't defend   
ourselves without Guild help."  
  
"Officers against all comers, eh?" Downey asked with false joviality.  
"Ah, I see Lord Vetinari has arrived. Excuse me, Commander."  
  
"You're damn right," Vimes said under his breath. All comers and then  
some, he thought. He knew better than to take Downey's assurances about  
Carrot at face value. He suspected, in part, that the bids for putting  
Carrot in abeyance on the Guild's books had something to do with the  
rage that he, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes, would exercise on the Guild,  
if his Captain were killed.   
  
Like his wife and child, like Angua and Fred and Detritus and yes, if   
it came to that, like Nobby, Carrot was family*. Family was important   
to a man raised in Cockbill street. Family was important to a copper.  
  
He watched Carrot walk easily through mass of people; they simply moved  
out of the way for him, without noticing it themselves. Who'd want to   
kill him?   
  
There's always a malcontent, though.   
  
Everyone knew, though no-one would say, that Carrot was the rightful   
king of the city. And even Vimes would admit that Carrot might have   
made a good king. Not that a good king was anything anyone needed, any  
more than they needed a bad one.  
  
But even if Carrot had been a good king, there would always be someone  
waiting in the wings to overthrow him. If it wasn't a local peasant, it  
was the King's Secretary or Grand Vizier or Evil Uncle or some such rot.  
  
He chased that thought, but it faded; that was how these things worked.  
So he carefully ignored it, and drank his fruit juice (he was so tired  
of fruit juice) and watched the shadows, until Sybil worked her way   
back to him.  
  
"Dear, you're being antisocial," she said gently. "They're about to   
start the dancing."  
  
He moaned. "Sybil, don't make me dance."  
  
"One dance, Sam. At least you don't have to do the whole thing   
backwards."  
  
"No, I just have to know what to do in the first place." He set the cup   
down, sighed, and offered her his arm. "Which way?"  
  
"Over by the orchestra," she said firmly.  
  
About halfway there, he noticed Carrot again, speaking to the leader of   
a dozen-odd musicians in tuxedos and black dresses, in one corner of   
the room. Angua stood nearby.  
  
Vimes' eyebrows shot up in surprise. He was used to seeing his female   
officers -- and there were a few, other than Angua and Cheri -- in the  
normal uniform of the Watch**, hard-wearing brown leather knee-britches   
and lots of chain mail. He'd very nearly forgotten they were female at   
all.  
  
Nobody, seeing Angua in that dress, could miss the fact that she was  
a woman. And, to judge by the sidelong looks that some of the other   
lords were giving her, nobody had.   
  
"Don't stare, dear, it's impolite," Sybil said, and he thanked his   
stars that she wasn't a jealous woman. She sounded amused. "The Watch   
does clean up rather nice, when they put their mind to it," she added.   
He, wisely, kept silent.  
  
"Commander!" Carrot called, as they reached the musicians' stage. "Glad  
you're here, sir. You've got to start the dancing."  
  
"I do?" Vimes asked. "Hallo, Angua, you look nice."  
  
"Thank you sir. Good evening, Lady Sybil."  
  
"Yes, you're the Commander of Police," Carrot continued.  
  
"Good evening, Angua," Sybil said. "Carrot behaving himself?"  
  
"What's that got to do with anything?" Vimes demanded.  
  
"Oh, yes, he's enjoying all of it," Angua replied.  
  
"It's your ball, sir," said Carrot.   
  
Angua and Sybil both looked at Vimes, who was turning quite a pleasant  
shade of red.   
  
"I still don't see -- "  
  
"You've got to make a show, Sam," Sybil said patiently. "You should be   
used to this by now."  
  
"Used to embarrassing myself in public?"  
  
"That too, possibly."  
  
Angua coughed, again. Vimes sighed and made a gesture of surrender. The  
musicians, who'd been watching the little drama with interest, struck  
the opening chord.   
  
He'd never really learned to dance properly. Sybil and Angua had taken   
him aside one day, shortly after he'd been promoted to Duke, and tried  
to show him. They said that Sir Samuel might be able to get away with  
scowling from a corner instead of dancing, but the Duke of Ankh had a   
position to maintain and anyhow had to be polite to the wives of   
foreign ambassadors who might want to dance with the closest thing   
Ankh-Morpork had to royalty. If anyone but Sybil had said that, he'd   
have cold-cocked them.   
  
Their efforts had been, if not successful, then somewhat helpful. He  
could get around the floor without killing anyone, and he could make   
polite conversation while doing it, if he remembered to keep counting   
in his head. More than that was asking too much.   
  
And here he was, like the idiot that he appeared to be in his dress  
uniform, the centre of attention (because nobody would dance until the  
Duke had danced, of course, what had he expected?).   
  
"It reminds me of the trip home from Uberwald," Sybil said, as he   
concentrated on counting.  
  
"Oh yes?"  
  
"Yes -- do you remember? Just before we reached the plains, there was   
the coaching inn, and the man playing the harmonium, and you gave him  
a dollar."  
  
"Oh...yes," he said, half his mind on the conversation, the other half  
on his feet. He did remember that; it was the only time he could recall  
that he had danced spontaneously. But it was a nice night, and they  
were still far away from the troubles of the city, and he was going to  
be a father... "I do remember that."  
  
The nanny should be checking in on young Sam just about now... "Maybe   
when Sam's old enough, we ought to travel again."  
  
Carrot had begun to dance with Angua, and others were slowly joining   
in... "Yes, I think so. How old enough is that, do you suppose?"  
  
There was Vetinari, the lucky sod, had a game leg as an excuse not   
to do this... "Oh, I don't know. Once he's on solids, I should think."  
  
He'd gotten the bad leg from an attack by a Guild leader... "We could   
go to Klatch. All the food's runny there anyhow."  
  
Nine times out of ten, it was the organisation that put forth the   
malcontents... "Now Sam, you know you don't mean that."  
  
Nine times out of ten, one of your own men was the one making   
trouble... "No, dear. Of course not."  
  
It was instinct. Pure and simple. If history wasn't so fond of split-  
second timing, he would have looked like he was having some sort of  
fit.   
  
In one fluid movement, he thrust Sybil into the crowd and turned and,  
because his body was already moving that way, kicked out in front of   
Carrot. His boot missed Angua's shoulder by inches, and then only   
because the dress trousers were constricting him***.   
  
There was a thud, and a tooth-jarring impact that knocked him off his  
feet.   
  
"DOWN, you two!" he shouted, scrambling up. There was a knife-hilt   
sticking out of his boot. It would have hit Carrot squarely in the   
neck. His ankle felt as though it could possibly be broken.   
  
No time for that.  
  
He pulled the knife out, praying that there wouldn't be any blood,   
as he turned in the direction the knife had come from. The draperies   
on the stairs were swinging. Several Watchmen were already   
running --   
  
-- in the wrong direction.  
  
"NOT US, YOU IDIOTS!" Vimes shouted. "THAT WAY!"  
  
The Watchmen skidded to a stop, as much from the force of the shout  
as from the orders he gave.   
  
"Go!" Carrot shouted, from the floor. They unfroze. So did Carrot.  
He was up and running towards the stairs before Vimes had even   
managed to get his mind around the fact that he had just caught a   
knife in his boot and apparently still had all his toes. Angua   
had, more sensibly, faded into the shadows. He saw a flash of   
golden fur from a dark corner.   
  
He turned just enough to see that Sybil was all right -- yes, there  
was Downey on one side and Vetinari on the other, helping her up,  
both men reaching for the concealed weapons that they /of course/  
did not carry.   
  
"Get her out of here," he growled, and ran in the opposite direction   
from the others. There were /two/ stairways in the grand ballroom   
of the opera house, and if a dozen Watchmen were racing up one, it   
made sense to circle around and run down the other.  
  
No wonder no-one had seen who put the lamp oil on the flame, no   
wonder the Watch hadn't caught anyone sneaking into the ballroom's  
balconies with a knife.   
  
The fire-starter was a Watchman.  
  
He snarled to himself under his breath. Who'd want Carrot dead? A  
sergeant bucking for his position? There was only one Captain of   
the Watch, and only one Commander. And since Vimes was notoriously  
hard to kill...  
  
Ankle definitely hurting. Feeling a bit dizzy --   
  
And there it was. Raging up from the dark recesses, drowning out  
the voices of logic. When you need it...it'll come when you call.  
  
Cop-killers were a despicable breed of criminal, but there were a   
few worse, and one of them was the crooked cop.   
  
He reached the top of the stairs and turned without thinking. If he   
didn't do this right, right now, he'd never get another try. Watchmen   
everywhere, one more uniform, so many sergeants and corporals and   
lance-corporals jockeying for rank behind the Captain.   
  
And now the little roulette wheel was spinning in his head, asking the  
horrible question no copper ever wanted to ask himself. If one of your  
men was a killer, who would it be? Cut out the stupid, the lazy, the  
incompetent, the unambitious, and even in the Watch there was still a   
fair-sized population of keen, smart youngsters who thought the world  
owed them rank.   
  
Vimes slowly checked off the sergeants in his head, as he ran through   
the shadows towards the stairwell that led to the flyspace above the   
Opera House ballroom, where the chandelier and decorations were hung.   
Angua, Detritus, Fred, Stronginthearm, no, no, no, no. Quirke,   
disqualified for stupidity. Couldn't be a troll sergeant, they were too   
noticeable. Who did that leave? The ones he didn't know as well, and behind them, a mass of corporals...  
  
He saw a flash of metal and swung himself flat against a wall. Another  
knife flew out of the darkness.  
  
By the gods, whoever they were, they were a keen hand with a knife.  
Did any of his sergeants have Assassins' training? He doubted it. But   
he'd made sure most of them were good fighters, hadn't he?   
  
Downey's assurances echoed back, as the beast roared in his   
subconscious.  
  
No outside contracts.  
  
He was going to murder Downey with his bare hands. Right after he threw  
this firebug off the rigging.  
  
He was the only one following the trail, now, and he could see that   
it was, indeed, a human, in a Watch uniform; he was picking his way   
out on the catwalks, cautiously now, because one slip meant a forty-  
foot plunge to the ballroom below, into the crowd of upturned faces   
watching them. Vimes, with a beast unhindered by a fear of death, did   
not pick carefully. He ran.   
  
"Now, you son of a -- " Vimes began, as he leapt and pulled the   
Watchman off his feet. They landed on a metal platform near the   
chandelier, and for a minute the air was knocked out of him. He blocked   
one attempt to disembowel him, kicked, and ducked as the man tried to   
give him a shave, Assassin-style, across the throat.   
  
He saw Carrot, moving as gracefully as a dancer, walking across the   
catwalks. Then the big policeman's hands descended, and the attacker   
was pulled off of him, and /then/ Vimes rolled and found himself   
leaning over the edge of the platform, and just about then his body   
decided it'd had enough, and he passed out, briefly.  
  
***  
  
  
* Although, if you thought of those people as his family, Nobby was   
closer to the unknown moggy that occasionally robbed the trash bins   
than anything else. Vimes didn't want to think about what Detritus was.   
  
** Which in Cheri's case meant high-heeled steel boots, true.  
  
*** A complaint he'd often made to Sybil, but now he had valid   
reasoning behind it. 


	3. 3

The Policeman's Ball  
pt. 3  
  
The patrons of the Ball thought it was quite a good show. They hadn't   
expected amateur theatricals from the Watch, but that trick with the   
knife in the Commander's shoe was bloody well done, almost looked as if   
someone had really thrown a knife at the Captain. Carrot wasn't about   
to dissuade them from the notion that it was all a planned   
entertainment; he gave orders, as he was carrying the unconscious   
Watchman down and helping an embarrassed Vimes back across the   
catwalks, for the other officers to act normally. Normally for   
Watchmen, anyhow.  
  
Carrot was, himself, quite impressed by the shoe trick, as Vimes sat   
in a dim, moldy-smelling back room of the Opera House and eased the   
boot off his foot. Angua, nearby, was readjusting her dress and   
trying to recall where she'd left her shoes.  
  
"Never saw anything like that, sir," Carrot said excitedly. "It was   
like kung-faux*!"  
  
"It was bloody stupid is what it was," Vimes said. "Bloody stupid and   
bloody good luck, that's all." He examined his foot, gingerly. The   
blade had gone in just above the boot's sole, and there was a neat,  
shallow slice on the ball of his foot, which had already stopped   
bleeding. He'd thought it must have hit his ankle, but apparently that   
was just the force of shoe-meets-knife when both were traveling at   
relatively high speeds. He'd limp for a few days. He limped now, as he   
crossed to the Watchman bound up in the corner.  
  
It was a Sergeant named Bealle, a veteran who'd said he'd come out from   
Sto Helit to join the Watch in the big city. Bealle had been a corporal   
under Quirke, until he made rank. That explained at least part of it.   
  
Vimes tried slapping him awake, but he was out cold. Instead, he   
turned his attention to the doorway, as Sybil entered the room. She was   
followed by Vetinari and Downey.   
  
Downey was fast. Vimes was faster, and angrier. He had him pinned to   
the wall, one hand on his throat and the other on a knife that was   
perilously close to making Downey sing soprano, before anyone could   
react.  
  
"No outside contracts," Vimes grated, as Carrot hovered behind him.   
Downey froze. When you had a blade that close to a man's vitals, he   
tended to move carefully, if at all. "You bloody commissioned it   
yourself, didn't you?"  
  
Downey gurgled. Sybil put a hand on her husband's arm.  
  
"You wouldn't like the rest of the Watch to see this," she said   
quietly. He glanced at her, and dropped Downey. The Assassin slid   
limply down the wall.  
  
"Now, what's going on?" Sybil asked. Vetinari, very casually, swung   
his walking stick out sharply, to prevent Downey from lunging forward.   
  
"He hired a Watchman to kill Carrot," Vimes snarled. "Hired and trained   
him, didn't you?"  
  
Vetinari looked slightly more carnivorous than usual. "I believe you've   
reversed the order, Sir Samuel," he said, watching Downey intently.   
Vimes turned to look at Bealle.   
  
"An Assassin?" he roared. "A Guild spy in /my Watch/?"  
  
Vetinari examined the brass head of his stick. "Well, Downey?" he   
asked, as if the Master of Assassins was a child getting caught at a   
game of Naughty Fruit Throwing. Downey gurgled again, rubbing his   
throat. The tip of Vetinari's walking stick rested against his chest.  
  
"It was the only way we could put the abeyance through into Guild law,"  
Downey began hoarsely. "I'm doing you a favor, Commander."  
  
"I'll do you a favor -- " Vimes began, but this time Carrot and Angua   
were ready, and caught his arms, stopping him.  
  
"What's all this, then?" Carrot asked.   
  
"What abeyance?" added Angua.  
  
"Nobody'd ever wanted us to even /try/!" Downey protested. "Nobody   
wants the Captain dead."  
  
"Let me see if I can sum up events, shall I?" the Patrician said.   
"Nobody wants our good Captain dead. I certainly don't. But several   
dozen attempts have been made on his Commander's life, yes? The Duke  
does so enjoy his games with the Guild."  
  
"I don't /enjoy/ -- " Vimes protested, weakly.   
  
"Please, Sir Samuel, do not interrupt. Perhaps...yes. An arrest is   
made. A troubled youth, to be sure. The son of a lord, or..." Vetinari   
gave Vimes a toothy little smile, "You arrested the Duke of Eorle's   
nephew, visiting from Quirm, did you not?"  
  
"Assault on a Watch Officer," Vimes growled.  
  
"Yes, and if I recall, several Seamstresses as well. Rosemary Palm was   
most put out that you got there first. She seems to think that Watch   
justice is somewhat lacking in...flavor. At any rate, while the native   
population of Ankh-Morpork holds you in quite high esteem, Captain, the   
sentiment does not hold true for spoilt young men from Quirm. I seem to   
recall a scene between the Duke of Eorle and several Guild members when   
he was informed that the Guild would not take contracts on the   
Commander. I imagine his sentiment was to the effect that someone ought   
to be assassinated. He didn't seem particular about whom."  
  
"So we suggested that Captain Carrot be put in abeyance," Downey said,   
less hoarsely now. "But it's a Council decision, you know. I can't just   
say 'so shall it be done'. There are rules that have to be followed. At   
least one attempt has to be made, first. With Sir Samuel, this was not   
a problem, but -- "  
  
"Are you telling me that you took Eorle's offer on Carrot because I   
wasn't available? Sorry, the Commander's out, call on the Captain?"  
Vimes demanded.   
  
"It was the only way," Downey answered. "I said we oughtn't to give the   
contract to Bealle, the only reason he's even in the Watch is that he   
couldn't make a living as an Assassin, and nobody but Bealle thought   
that if the Captain died he'd be next promoted. It was out of my   
hands!"  
  
Angua had begun to growl, low, in the back of the throat. It was a   
sound that many of the criminal underclass were quite familiar with,  
albeit for brief periods of time. For many of them it was the herald of   
unconsciousness.   
  
"Unsporting," Sybil murmured, in the tone of voice that the upper   
class used, which made it sound as though being a bad sport was second   
only to being a genocide.   
  
"That's what I said!" Downey answered. "I said Bealle was unbalanced,  
he didn't even wear /black/ -- "  
  
"Yes, a breach of Guild law, how sad for you," Vetinari said sharply.  
"In the meantime, Downey, I would /suggest/ that the attempt having  
been made and thwarted, there will be no further objection to the   
removal of the Captain from active...bidding? And Mr. Bealle will be  
removed from the Guild's active list and sent quite far away. Or shall   
I pay a visit to the Guild council to explain the situation? Say,   
Monday, at eight? I can be there quite early," he added, with a look of   
predatory benevolence.   
  
"That will not be necessary," Downey said firmly. "I think, between His   
Grace's most emphatic protest and your lordship's interest in the case,   
I can convince the council to -- "  
  
"Just like that?" said Vimes, abruptly. "All sorted out then, is it?  
Nobody's going to complain about the fact that Carrot almost got   
killed? All because of some legal wrangle in the rulebooks of a guild   
that murders people for a living?" He turned to Carrot. "I think my lad   
here's got a right to a little more than that, don't you?"  
  
Carrot looked dubious. "Well, it's not as though they can really make   
amends, sir," he said. "I mean, Lord Downey's already said he's sorry,   
sort of. I suppose they could buy you a new set of armour, and maybe   
give some money to Dorfl's volunteer firefighters. There's the water   
that the Patrician bought for us. And Sham Harga, we owe him for a new   
grill," he added brightly.   
  
Vimes covered his eyes with his hand, exasperated. Angua gave him a   
sypmathetic pat on his shoulder.  
  
"It's just his way, sir," she said.   
  
"Yes, Angua, I know," he answered. "All right," he added, turning to   
Downey. "You heard Carrot."  
  
"Of course," Downey said, with the smoothness of a man who's been  
beaten but may still get out alive. He drew an expensive, discreet  
pocket-book out of his coat, and poised a pen over a blank cheque.   
"How much, Captain?"  
  
Carrot pursed his lips. "Was it your good breastplate, sir?"  
  
"No, Carrot."  
  
"Right then. Ten and fifteen for repairs and making good; three to the  
Patrician for the water. Where do you buy your shirts, sir?"  
  
Vimes, thoroughly angry but also beginning to understand where Carrot   
was going, looked at Sybil. She insisted on buying his uniform clothes   
for him; if he bought his own, she had the laundry girl lose them, and   
replaced them with ones she'd bought anyway.  
  
"Marks & Stronginthearm," she said. "Low-collar, smooth spin."  
  
"Good quality. Twenty dollars about right? Fifty for the trousers?"  
  
"I'd say so, yes," Sybil smiled.   
  
"Fifty dollars?" Vimes asked. "I pay fifty dollars for my trousers?"  
  
"They're very durable, Sam."  
  
"Good lord."  
  
"Plus the grill and a donation, new boots, I'd say...two hundred and   
fifty-eight dollars and twenty pence ought to do it," Carrot said.   
"Made out to Mister Vimes, of course."  
  
Downey scowled. Vimes grinned, suddenly.   
  
He was going to have the cancelled cheque framed and hung in his   
office.   
  
***  
  
The event was definitely a hit. There were no end of people who wanted   
to tell him how much they'd enjoyed it. Vimes could have lived with a   
few less people enjoying it, truth be told. But he tried to smile and   
say 'thank you', and blamed the whole thing on Carrot if anyone asked.   
  
"Do you think we could escape?" he asked Sybil, as another Leader of   
Industry or Lord His Honor The or someone wandered off.   
  
"Your foot?" she asked, sympathetically. The pain had died to a dull   
twinge, but for once in his life he seized the opportunity.  
  
"Yes. Terrible aches," he said. "I'll limp for a month."  
  
"You're not a very good liar, Sam," she said, but she smiled. "I'll go   
have a word with Carrot."  
  
He stood in the shadows, where he liked to be, and watched the dancing.   
Angua sidled up, quietly.  
  
"I see you found your shoes, Sergeant," he said.   
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Enjoy yourself?"  
  
"Mostly, sir," Angua answered, because she was a truthful woman. "Be   
glad to get back in uniform."  
  
"That's two of us, then."   
  
"Have a good evening, sir," she said, and hugged him briefly. He   
blinked. "That's for caring about Carrot," she added, and vanished into   
the crowd.   
  
"All right, I've settled things," Sybil said, returning. "Shall we go,   
Sam?"  
  
He smiled, and offered her his arm, and even remembered to limp as they   
walked towards the carriage.  
  
"I think the Policeman's Ball has been quite a success, don't you?" he   
asked.  
  
END  
  
* A little-known form of martial arts where the combatants dress in   
fake fur and wigs. It never caught on, really. 


End file.
